Hanawy with a regal gesture as if shooing away a bug. âAhmed Maher was my teacher. He taught me to fly. He taught me the MiG-21 fighter jet. He taught me how to stay alive and how to kill the Israeli pilots. He put me in the squadron of Hosni Mubarak.â The general pointed at a younger picture of himself in uniform with Mubarak as his squadron commander. âWithout Ahmed Maher, I would have died in the skies over Sinai when I was twenty-two years old. And he has asked me to help you. What may I offer you? Whiskey? Wine?â
âOh, no, thank you.â Ari shook his head.
âIt is not a problem. We keep those for our American friends. And there is always the proverbial mint tea,â added the general, as a tea tray landed on his desk and the porter handed Ari his cup.
âSo my teacher, Ahmed Maher, told me you are from Hollywood, California?â
âOh, no, sir. I live in New York, but he is correct. I do work for the movies, and Iâm a pilot. If you ever come to New York, I will take you flying,â Ari continued. âI will fly you down the Hudson River, over Central Park, over the Brooklyn Bridge, next to the skyscrapers of Wall Street, out over New York Harbor, then weâll fly in a tight circle around the Statue of Liberty.â
As different as these two men were, they were both pilots. They knew something about each other that regular people didnât. They shared the fellowship of addicts hooked on a drug they had to wait ever so carefully to use. The price of this drug was competenceâand a thorough understanding of how not to use it. Within a minuteâs inattention, one could cause, then suffer, the most terrifying fate. Every time one stepped into the cockpit, then pulled up and off the runway, a specter of death hovered, always quickening the heart just a little bitâwaiting for the slightest mistake or malfunction, and making one feel a little more alive.
âAhmed Maher said you require some assistance with aerial photography?â asked the general.
âYes, sir.â
âAnd the Egyptian Air Force will not provide what you need?â
Sell him first, thought Ari, then tell him your troubles. âOh itâs complicated, but ⦠If I may, sir?â
Ari leapt out of his chair and set up the pyramids and Sphinx on the generalâs desk. The general raised his hand.
âOne moment.â The general picked up his phone and barked an order in Arabic.
âBefore you start, let me call in my number two.â General Hanawy leaned in confidentially. âI am something of a figurehead here. He is really the one who runs this company, Mustapha Shawky. He is a good man. He was never in the Air Force, but all of his brothers were. His is a fine family.â
A very short bald man with a moustache and a hand-tailored Egyptian suit walked in.
âHello?â said the diminutive Shawky, looking at Ari and not knowing what to expect.
âMustapha, this is Mr. Ariel Basher from New York and Hollywood. Ahmed Maher Shehata, my flight instructor, sent him to us. He is about to make a presentation. Go ahead please.â
Ari finished placing the pyramids and Sphinx on the desk.
âSo, hereâs the Great Pyramid, and the others.â
âAs they would be situated,â said the general.
âBut the Sphinx would be below them,â Shawky corrected him.
The general turned on Shawky annoyed. âOf course, that goes without saying.â
Ari picked up the toy helicopter and mimed the action as he described it.
âSo the shot would start very close, tight on the head of the Sphinx, so tight that we wouldnât know where we were. Then, as the helicopter orbits the Sphinx, we start to see the head and recognize it. As we pull back, we see the whole body. We come around back here and go right past the tip-top of the pyramid of Khafre and the pyramid of Khufu. Then we see the whole Necropolisâand the desert in